


Gallifrey Records: The Charity Broadcast

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [14]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor, Rose, and the Master co-host a Children in Need Charity special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To get the background on this one, it might help to have read [The Acoustic Collaboration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1019368).

  


“You did what you had to in Kuala Lumpur, Rose. It’s fine. The gig is going to go just fine. We can manage this,” the Doctor had said.

“I know how to keep a man like that in line,” Jack had said, grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

“You bring along a cattle prod and give him a zap if he gets out of line, _that’s_ how you keep a man like that in line,” Donna had said, arching her eyebrow at Jack and smirking.

“I know you two normally don’t give the organizers a backstage rider for a charity event like this,” Martha had said, “but this might be the time to make an exception. Y’know, dressing room a certain distance away, security personnel, straitjackets on-hand in case the Master needs to be restrained.”

Rose has spent the last week in a constant state of dread, and everyone’s input hasn’t helped in the least. It’s been months since her encounter with the Master in Kuala Lumpur; since she narrowly escaped a public relations debacle by embarrassing him into agreeing to co-host the Children in Need television special with her and the Doctor.

The dread is sitting heavy for a couple of reasons: knowing she’s going to have to be in immediate proximity to that egotistical wanker for an entire twelve hour period, including rehearsals and the actual event. But the _worst_ part of it is knowing she’s put the Doctor in this position, too.

The Doctor seems to have come to some sort of zen about the Master, ever since the ordeal that was his [induction into the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame](http://gallifreyburning.tumblr.com/post/21978965984/fic-tennis-gallifrey-records-rock-and-roll-hall-of). He doesn’t seem nervous or antsy, like he was then. And he hasn’t been upset, hasn’t blamed her — has, in fact, been going on about his life as though they don’t have this hanging over both their heads.

He spends most of the morning in his pants, strolling around the flat with a steaming mug of tea and smiling out the window at nothing in particular, humming a song Rose doesn’t recognize. (And that’s unnerving in and of itself, Rose not recognizing a song on the Doctor’s lips.) And by the time the limo comes to pick them up at ten o’clock, he’s dressed himself (she said something vague about the trousers, about how they didn’t quite coordinate with his jacket, but he’d just grinned and told her she _definitely_ ought to wear the sparkly Union Jack tank, so she put it on) and Rose holds her peace until they’re nearly at the venue, until her peace has derailed right into near-panic.

“Okay, _what is it_?”

The Doctor turns from the window to look at her, befuddled. “It’s a pedestrian zone, Rose. We have to wait.”

“No, Doctor! You’re walking around without a care in the world, like tonight isn’t going to be one awkward and horrible thing after another! How are you _doing_ that? Why aren’t you the slightest bit concerned about the fact that we’re one minute away from spending twelve hours in close quarters, in front of a television camera, with the Master, and Lucy watching from the sidelines? What do you know that I don’t?”

The Doctor’s brow crinkles, like it’s just occurred to him that this is something he should, perhaps, be bothered by.

“I don’t know anything,” he says, shrugging. “Well, that’s not true, I know plenty. But among the many, many things I know, including the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow, is that we will be _together_ , helping children. How awful can it be?”

Rose feels her jaw go slack and then a small spike of anger. Now _she_ looks like the mental one, on a night where they’ll be co-hosting with the _Master_.

The car reaches the venue before she can form a coherent response that doesn’t include deliberately trying to rile the Doctor, and they’re out into a throng of press and fans.

Donna pulls them inside after a few minutes of mugging for cameras and signing things, shaking copies of the schedule at both of them and muttering.

“Doctor, are you going to be able to breathe in those things?” Donna says as they pass through a series of doors. She’s gesturing at his trousers and Rose can barely keep a snicker in at the Doctor’s offended look.

“Oi! They’re not that tight,” he says, shaking his leg out to demonstrate.

“No, no, of course not,” Donna says. “And imagine all the thought-provoking conversations about religion that families will get to have when they get a look at you.”

The Doctor’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but Donna’s already moved on.

“So long as you can stand all night,” she says. “Blood flow, circulation, I don’t want to hear about any of it. We are on a _schedule_.”

It’s true – nearly every minute of the next 12 hours is meticulously planned, and they’ll spend the first few of them apart before coming back for a full rehearsal run-through, a supper break, and then the four-hour broadcast.

Rose was initially supposed to watch the taped segments and appeals with the Doctor right now, making sure they’re able to vamp if things go long or short or completely helter-skelter, but instead she’s spending her time double-checking the script and the teleprompters.

Mickey had pointed out, waving an old “Anchorman” DVD from the tour bus at her, that it would be just like the Master to try and slip a few things in and hope Rose and the Doctor didn’t catch them before speaking.

So the Doctor’s heading to the video room and she’ll spend her time her time screening for the words, “Go fuck yourself, Pudsey.”

The Master is presumably somewhere sacrificing a goat or burning down a recycling plant to counteract all the good he’s going to unwillingly bring about tonight.

Wherever he is, she hopes he stays there.

A swarm of staff descends on them as Donna leads them further into the building and whatever madness they’re in for tonight, it’s clear it’s already begun.

“See you later, Rose!” The Doctor says, leaning down to give her a quick kiss and then waving as he’s escorted away, spirits still visibly high.

Maybe she’s blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

“Where to?” She says, forcing a smile for the staffer to her left.

“It’ll be just this way,” the woman says and a few moments later Rose is ushered through the door of the makeshift control room.

It’s cramped and hectic, papers and monitors littering every corner, but Rose’s eyes are fixed straight ahead.

Lucy is already seated at the teleprompter computer, scrolling through lines of dialogue.

“Here you go,” the staff woman says, gesturing to the already occupied chair. Then she blinks, as though she’s surprised to see Lucy there. “I’ll grab another seat. Just a mo.”

Lucy turns around, beaming from ear to ear. She has a slightly glassy look to her eyes, and it makes something twinge in Rose’s stomach, that look. The things she imagines Lucy has gone through, being married to someone like the Master. The things Lucy has seen, that have given her that thousand-yard stare.

“Rose!” she says, as though they’re old mates from school and haven’t seen each other in ages. She stands up and throws her arms open for a hug. Rose balks, but is acutely aware of the way everyone else in the control room is staring. Acutely aware of the fact that the media has already been buzzing about this whole affair — anytime the Doctor and the Master share a stage, it’s a PR circus. So Rose embraces her briefly, a quick and efficient pat on the back, and she’s done.

“So nice to see you,” Rose says, trying not to bare too many teeth. Trying to ignore the way Lucy’s gaze focuses right through her, as though Rose is actually in another part of the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Harry sent me over to take a look at his lines, make sure they didn’t have him saying anything embarrassing. He gave me a list.” She gestures vaguely to a piece of paper beside the computer.

“Oh, what luck! Donna just gave me the same job,” Rose says. “You never know what kind of rubbish writers will come up with and put on a teleprompter! Do you mind if I join you? Can we start at the beginning?” At that moment, the staff woman shows up with an extra chair.

Lucy smiles at Rose, and it’s the expression of a feral cat, wary at the sight of a human. “That would be nice. I’d like that.”

~~~~~

The room Donna ushers the Doctor into is lined on one wall with a bank of televisions, half a dozen techs scampering around. The Master is sprawled out in a folding chair, watching a pre-taped segment about a fifteen year old with leukemia.

Donna grabs the Doctor’s elbow. “There are things that need seeing to, elsewhere. But I’ll tell them all to shove it, if you want me to stay.”

The Doctor throws his arm around her, because this is one of those moments in his life when he realizes exactly how much he needs Donna — how if he was ever able to choose his family, to choose his sister, he would without reservation pick this woman.

“Shoo,” he tells her after he lets her out of a half-hug, waving at her with one hand. “Off with you. Do whatever needs doing. Things are well under control here.”

Hearing the Doctor’s voice, the Master turns around. He rolls his eyes and points at the screen. “This kid’s rubbish. I mean, leukemia’s a good hook, but the boy’s got no anima!”

There’s another folding chair leaning against the wall and the Doctor grabs it and sets it up just far enough away from the Master to be out of a strike zone.

For either of them.

He’s feeling charitable toward the Master, and, appropriately, charitable in general, but there’s no reason to tempt fate. He settles himself into the chair and pointedly doesn’t respond, instead watching the rest of the video.

It’s absolutely heart-breaking and he wishes for a moment that he’d asked Donna to stay, not because of anything to do with the Master, but because this video, and the ones like it, are a bleak reminder of how fragile everything is, all the time.

An hour later, they’ve gotten through most of the footage, and he’s just getting ready to get his mobile out to text Rose, call Rose, _find_ Rose, and never, ever, ever let her go, when the power goes out.

Emergency lighting fills the room, dim and flickering, and there’s a few moments of commotion before an employee explains that non-essential items, like the monitors, will remain off until power is restored.

The Master is smirking, a twisted, sinister thing that makes the Doctor picture him out behind the building, cutting a wire with a big pair of shears and twirling his mustache.

Of course, the Master doesn’t have a mustache, not lately, and he’s been sitting next to the Doctor for the last 60 minutes, but it’s still definitely possible he’s had a hand in this.

Rose appears in the doorway, silhouetted in the weak light, and the Doctor can just make out Lucy at her heels.

The Doctor’s up and out of his chair in a flash, rocketing toward Rose and spinning her into a hug.

“Not a single line out of place,” Rose says, quiet and right into the Doctor’s ear. “Do you suppose this is his plan instead?” She pulls back to gesture at the darkened room.

Donna barrels into the room then, eyes raking down the Doctor and Rose like she’s checking for injury before fixing her eyes on the Master.

“It’s just this building,” Donna says, and there’s accusation in her tone. Apparently all three of them have reached the same conclusion.

The Master barely blinks, finally rising from his chair to stroll over to Lucy before dipping her down and kissing her. It’s graphic and wet-sounding and the Doctor looks away as he pulls back.

Lucy’s eyes are unfocused, mouth shining and red, and there’s moment of thick silence before the Master says, “I like it in the dark.”

Donna rolls her eyes, “Gross,” she says, and then turns back to the Doctor and Rose. “They’re going to start rehearsal early, the light’s all right in there, but the sound system is still out. Do you need anything?”

The Doctor feels Rose’s hand against his, twining their fingers together. “Nope,” he says and then, because Donna looks a little nervous, and Rose does, too, he adds, “Well, maybe some tighter trousers. These are just so _loose_.”

Donna rolls her eyes again, but it’s a much friendlier gesture this time, and leads them out to the auditorium.

The Doctor, Rose and the Master aren’t actually scheduled to perform any sets — the spotlight’s on other musicians and performers, tonight. But the organizers have arranged to have their instruments on-hand, because it isn’t unheard of for the hosts to strut out onstage during performances, to join in on the fun.

Except the Doctor can’t imagine a situation in which playing music with the Master would qualify as _fun._ And with how antsy Rose has been about this entire day, and a very clear memory of the videophone footage of Rose playing guitar alongside the Master for a bunch of kids stranded in a typhoon, the Doctor is determined not to put Rose in a situation playing music with the Master again, either.

He’d seen the footage on youtube, before Rose got home from Kuala Lumpur, and the Doctor hadn’t ever brought himself to watch it a second time — because when he did, something tugged at his chest, ugly and hot and he’s positively _not_ jealous, that _isn’t_ jealousy, because what does he have to be jealous about? It’s not like Rose _enjoyed_ it or anything, even if the way she and the Master harmonized wasn’t terrible. And got glowing mentions on a few prominent music blogs, sparked more talk about the mysterious guitarist _John Smith_ on Rose’s solo album actually being the Master. What did any of that matter? Because the Doctor _wasn’t jealous_.

Rehearsal consists mostly of a read-through of their lines and watching the other performers do sound checks. There’s a small herd of children and their families — kids with various illnesses who are going to be doing interviews later on during the broadcast, but who have been brought in early to see their favorite performers warm up, and have a meet-and-greet.

The read-through is surprisingly uneventful. The Master seems to be on his best behavior, doesn’t step on anyone else’s lines. He’s crisp and professional and quite charming — he’s always had that ability, actually, to sway people, to pull them in and make them do his bidding. Rather like a con artist. Except in this circumstance — raising money for a charity — the Doctor has to admit, it’s an asset.

Afterward, the Doctor snags Rose’s hand again and makes a beeline for the kids gathered just next to the stage of the otherwise empty stadium. They sit down in the small crowd, talking and signing autographs and taking pictures. The kids swarm them, and it’s fantastic — watching their faces light up, seeing the joy they have even in the midst of the suffering they’ve gone through. Watching Rose light up in response, that’s not bad either — it’s hypnotizing, makes the Doctor feel more than a little weak in the knees, the way she laughs and bounces one of the toddlers on her lap, how gracious and friendly she is with the kid’s mum.

The Master and Lucy have vanished from the front of house, gone somewhere backstage, without sparing the kids a second glance. _Good riddance,_ the Doctor thinks. If they stay gone until the performance starts, this whole afternoon might end up quite pleasant, actually.

Before long, Donna swings by fish the Doctor and Rose out of the crowd. “Good news: they got the power restored in the command center. Apparently _something_ chewed through the power lines in the box in the alley,” she says. “And it’s time for your dinner break.”

~~~~~

Rose can’t decide if she’s eating because she’s bored waiting for the show to begin, eating because she’s nervous _about_ the show beginning, or eating because she’s just plain hungry.

Whatever it is, her plate is piled almost as high as the Doctor’s when they get done with the catering spread.

It feels a little weird – _a lot_ weird – to be eating this well at a charity gig, but it’s all been sponsored and provided by Jack’s station (spearheaded by Jack, she’s sure) and is open to everyone involved, including the kids and their families.

There are tables lined up to eat at, but the Doctor, balancing an apple precariously on the top of a pile of pasta, nods toward the hall, “Dressing room?”

She shrugs and follows him out, trying not to drop the handful of berries ringing the edge of her plate.

They pass the Master in the hall, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and an energy drink in the other. He sneers at their full plates, but doesn’t say anything.

They make it to the dressing room, a shared one this time, and the Doctor nudges the door shut behind them with his foot.

Rose deposits her plate on the small coffee table and relaxes into the sofa, shifting to make room for the Doctor as he does the same with his food, and collapses next to her.

“Almost show-time,” he says, plucking a roasted potato from Rose’s plate and popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“Yep,” she says, unwrapping the utensils and handing the Doctor a set. He stares at them in his hand like he’d already made plans to eat his meal with his fingers and is confused by this new development, but then he shrugs and shovels a forkful of pasta toward his mouth.

“Should be good,” he says around the noodles and he seems so sincere, and everything’s gone so well so far, minus the power outage, that Rose resolves right there to stop dwelling.

“Should definitely be good,” she says.

They eat in silence for a little while, and Rose allows herself a few moments of introspection, watching the Doctor scrutinize the biscuits on her plate before making a selection. They could be anywhere right now, their kitchen, their living room, the tour bus, just her and her best friend in the entire world, sharing space.

In just a little while, they’ll go on national television to try and change the lives of those less fortunate, and this, all of it, it makes her feel incredibly grateful for what she’s got. What _they’ve_ got.

The Doctor finishes the last of the food and twists his body on the sofa so he’s on his back with his head in her lap.

She weaves her fingers into his hair, scratching lightly along his scalp as he closes his eyes. Maybe the Master was onto something with that energy drink, although knowing him it was probably more than just Red Bull in that can.

“Excited about seeing anyone in particular?” The Doctor’s eyes open again at the sound of her voice and he smiles.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, voice low. “But I quite fancy that Rose Tyler, and I have it on a good authority that she looks beautiful in her little Union Jack shirt.”

He turns in her lap, bringing a hand up and tracing the pattern of her top with his fingers.

“Yeah?” she says. “Isn’t she with that Doctor bloke? Seems like a right handful, that one does.”

He sits up then, pulling her toward him, “Oh, he’s not so bad.” He settles her in his lap, kissing her lightly.

“Prove it,” she says, nipping at his bottom lip. His mouth opens against hers, tongue sliding past her teeth as he tugs her more fully against him by the hips.

Her arms settle around his shoulders, fingers curling to play with the hair at the back of his head as they continue to kiss.

He’s just pulled his mouth from hers, dropping it to her neck, warm and wet and perfect, when a knock sounds at the door.

Before Rose can scramble off the Doctor’s lap, certainly before they say anything about anyone coming in, the door flies right open. Donna is there, along with the event chairman — the head of the Children In Need board of directors. He’s got the wide-eyed look of someone who’s just discovered that he’s accidentally fallen into shark-infested waters, and his boat’s already lost over the horizon.

“The call center’s down,” he says, hardly seeming to notice as Rose hops to her feet and tugs her wrinkled shirt back into place. He’s got a pen in his hands, and he’s wringing it like it’s mortally offended him, the cap squeaking as it gets twisted round and round.

“George, calm down. Take a deep breath. What exactly do you mean, ‘down’?”

“The power problem we had here at the facility? The first in a series of failures around Manchester,” Donna pipes up, shoving a clipboard at him. The Doctor takes it and, without even glancing at it, hands it to Rose. She reads the list, all written out in Donna’s sharp handwriting — a series of notes about power stations, block radiuses, some calculations. Donna’s very clever in general, but particularly with numbers, and it’s obvious she’s been working something out.

Rose lifts her eyebrow at Donna. “So what does it mean?”

“Rolling blackouts, staged at certain intervals, the interruption of power coming from _outside_ the power station. Aimed at the blocks containing the call center and its computer equipment. And the timing of the blackouts — the way the power flickered and came back on again six times, at six perfectly spaced time frames — that’s not something that happens on accident. And it completely crashed the call center’s computer systems. _Unrecoverably_ crashed. Going to cost millions to have everything restored, and it’s _certainly_ not happening before we’re live in twenty minutes!” She pauses, and it’s a bit dramatic. As is the way she puts her hand on her hip and sighs. “I’ll give you one guess as to who _happens_ to have a call center available, starting immediately, to solve our problem.”

The Doctor is making that duckface, the one he does when he’s particularly irritated at the digital satellite system because it hasn’t recorded _Iron Chef_ at all, but instead managed to catch a marathon of _There’s Something About Miriam._ He sighs. “Blimey. Knew it was too good to last.”

George opens his mouth, and a soft clicking noise comes out as his tongue works, trying to produce sound. He’s breathing so fast, and he’s gone so pale, that Rose comes over to take him by the hand and lead him to the couch before he faints.

“And?” Rose says to Donna, because it’s clear they won’t get anything from George for a while.

“Food poisoning. Three acts are down so far — and if I were you, I wouldn’t go within a mile of the loo in the north end of the stadium.” Donna leans over, peering past Rose at the plates on the table. “I’m assuming since you’re both here and not bowing to the porcelain god, neither of you ate the tilapia?”

“Pasta,” the Doctor and Rose chorus at the same time.

“Well at least there’s that, then,” she says. “He’s got us in a corner right enough, though.”

The Doctor snatches the clipboard from Rose and brandishes it like it’s a weapon of some kind. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

He glances down at the clipboard one last time before tossing it toward George and the sofa, “We’re going to wing it!”

Donna’s jaw drops, eyes going wide, “That’s your big plan? We’re going to _wing_ _it_? Are. You. _Mental_.” She’s waving her hands, fingers punctuating each word and, oh, this is bad.

The Doctor nods, like the solution is obvious, “Well, what else are we going to do? Cancel? ‘Oh, sorry, everyone, can’t help you! We don’t have _electricity_!’ Did electricity stop the –”

Rose can spot a rambling, I’ll-find-the-point-when-I’m-good-and-ready monologue from 20 paces and steps in, “How, Doctor, _how_ do you suggest we ‘wing it?’”

There’s a moment where the Doctor looks offended at having his speech cut off, but he shakes his head and the expression clears.

“Well, obviously we have to use the Master’s call center.There’s no other option and we’ll make a big point of saying it’s his at the top of the broadcast. There’s no way he’ll risk it. Then we just – _wing it_!”

George stands from the sofa on shaky legs, “You want to improvise for _three_ – ” his phone vibrates with a text message and his face visibly pales as he reads it, ” – _four_ acts?”

The Doctor shrugs, “We’ll sing some songs!”

Rose is already mentally moving ahead, trying to plot out a set list, should it be original stuff? Covers? There’s no way the Master will let them go on alone for all the missing artists, if the show’s going on, he’ll most certainly want to go on with it.

Donna and George are staring at her and she realizes they’re expecting a response, either a new solution or an acceptance of the Doctor’s.

“Yeah,” she says, excitement already starting to bubble in her veins. “We’ll sing some songs.”

The Doctor’s grin is wide and pleased as he slings one arm around her shoulders and the other around Donna’s, “Allons-y!”

~~~~~

As plans go, it’s not his best. He’s much better at things like _planning_ to get Rose’s knickers off, or _planning_ to convince Rose to not wear knickers at all.

A plan to fill at least an hour of brand new airtime on national television, when they haven’t rehearsed a single thing for it, is nowhere near as sexy – and probably nowhere near as likely to be successful. He’s gotten awfully good at executing those knicker plans, after all.

But, there’s not really time for a plan B right now, not with Donna practically running down the hallways, shouting into a headset, trying to get everyone into positions. She leaves the Doctor and Rose in the wings of stage right; the Master’s supposed to be entering opposite them.

“Will I be needing a headset?” He says to no one in particular, as the five minute call goes out. Headsets are _brilliant_ , leave your hands free for – hand things.

Rose grins at him, pointing at a small table to the side, “We have mics, Doctor.”

“Oh, right, right, of course,” he says.

A team of make up artists descend on them, and then they’re both fitted with their in-ear monitors, which he makes sure to point out is _not_ the same as a headset.

They’ve only just been left alone again as the monitors crackle to life.

“ _Sixty seconds to air_!”

Stage nerves flicker in the Doctor’s stomach — so many years since he started walking onstage to entertain a crowd, and he still feels them every time. And at this point it’s instinct, reaching out for Rose, giving her an enormous grin as he pulls her into his arms.

“This is going to be brilliant,” he says.

“Yeah,” she replies, and she gives him her brave face — the smile that’s just a tad too big, the eyes wide with nerves. It’s been several years since their first tour together, their first time sharing a stage, and the Doctor can’t imagine doing any of this without her anymore. He doesn’t _want_ to. And seeing all the ill children, realizing how short and fragile and beautiful life can be, it’s just made his arms itch to hold her more.

The Doctor’s mouth finds hers, because this is as much a part of any performance ritual as putting on his guitar. Her lips open, her tongue finds his; one hand slides around his back, balling up his jacket into her fist, and her other hand slides into his hair, her fingertips warm, fingernails scraping his scalp. He makes a needy noise, backing her up a step toward the curtain. His eyes flutter open, but it’s so dark back here he can hardly see anything, anyway. It’s only touch and taste and the familiar feel of Rose, of home. The buzz of the audience beyond the curtain, the shout of stagehands nearby and the tech director’s babble in his ear monitor.

“And we’re on!” crackles the voice over the monitor.

Rose breaks away in a rush of air, tugging at his hair. Her hand finds his, and she’s strutting out onto stage, the Doctor following right along, his lips still buzzing, his head full of her scent and taste (he never wants to go onstage any other way, can begin to understand the men in his profession who end up mired in drugs and alcohol, because it’s some form of addiction or another, and his need for Rose is verging on that sort of compulsion). The crowd roars, his hand tightens around Rose’s before he lets go to lift both hands in the air and wave.

The Master’s strutting in from the other side of the stage, and he isn’t waving; he’s staring out at the audience with a self-satisfied grin, twirling his microphone in one hand, as though every single cheer is solely for him. There’s a smudge of blood red lipstick at the corner of his mouth — his little performance rituals haven’t changed either, the Doctor thinks. He can’t see Lucy in the wings stage left, but she must be hidden there somewhere. Or, knowing the Master, he might’ve just grabbed the nearest stagehand and snogged her senseless, sexual harassment lawsuits be damned.

The Master lifts the microphone to his lips. “Good evening, Manchester! Are you ready to help a good cause?” The way he says it, it's intimate and personal, like he’s asking each and every member of the audience to come back to his place. And the Doctor knows the Master — knows him _too_ well — so to the Doctor's ears, it’s too much, verging onobscene.

But the audience is ready to be seduced by the Master in his sharp suit; they squeal in response, undulating with excitement.

“Well then,” the Doctor says into his microphone, his voice amplified to the furthest corners of the stadium, “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

 

The first hour is a blur. Somehow most of the acts that have fallen sick are in the second half of the show, which means, other than the announcement about the call center change, everything’s nearly on schedule.

There’s running off stage, running onto it, screaming and cheering and so many donations.

The Doctor gets caught ogling Rose, a camera zooming in tight on how his eyes are just a touch too low to be looking at her face. The audience loves it, the way his cheeks go pink, and Rose tells the crowd she’ll donate an extra hundred quid if he behaves for the rest of the night.

He shakes his head and grabs a note from his own wallet, handing it over with a toothy grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.

The Master, for his part, is charming and slick, going off-script only when it’ll affect the totals. He’d delayed Muse off the stage for two whole minutes, waiting until they’d hit a new fundraising milestone to allow the performance to begin.

It nearly gives poor George a panic attack, but it works.

They’re just rolling into one of the live segments, a skit with that ginger actress who’s a dead ringer for Donna, and they still haven’t found time to regroup with the whole band.

They’d all been called backstage to help with the upcoming impromptu performances and to fill in where they could from acts that were only down a member or two.

Jake had played bass for the The Strokes and the Doctor’s pretty sure Adam is never going to recover from banging out “Satisfaction” on Charlie Watts’ kit.

There was even a reunion of sorts as they ran into their old back-up singer, Amy Pond. She’d performed with her new band, Amy and the Babes, or Amy and the Hobos, or Amy and the Two Blokes that Stare at Her Making Moony Eyes, the Doctor’s not actually sure, but they’d sounded brilliant.

“This is amazing,” Rose says, beaming at him in the wings. She looks sweaty and flushed and completely beautiful. “I think we might actually pull it off!”

He nods. “Might just do!”

A staffer appears with a bottle of water and the Doctor gestures for Rose to go first. She takes a long drink from it, handing it to him to finish. He makes a point to tip his head up a little and grins around the mouth of the bottle as he catches Rose watching his Adam’s apple.

“Now who’s staring, Rose Tyler?” he says when he finishes, because he’ll never understand it, but Rose assures him he “swallows expressively.”

She leans forward, rising on her toes just enough to run her tongue along his throat.

“But I’ve got follow-through,” she tells him when she’s done, dropping back down.

“Oh, I can have follow-through,” he says, edging her aganist the wall, hands resting on her hips.

“Do you two ever stop? It’s disgusting.” The Master’s voice is a low drawl, hand at his ear as he fiddles with his monitor.

“Pretty sure I saw you trying to scrape out Lucy’s tonsils with your tongue earlier,” Rose says. “Might be good for you to watch, get some pointers on proper technique.”

The Master finally stops playing with this monitor, eyes narrowing at Rose, and the Doctor knows she can handle him, has seen her do it a million times before, but it doesn’t stop him wanting to step in the middle of them.

“You just the name place, love. I’ll be happy to demonstrate my technique,” the Master says. “Never had any complaints, and certainly not from your idiot boyfriend.”

Rose rolls her eyes, “Every. Single. Time. Honestly, it’s like you’ve never shagged anyone else, you’re so hung up on him.”

She turns to the Doctor, “I think he still fancies you,” she says in a very loud stage whisper.

~~~~~

Whatever game the Master’s been playing has been somewhat subtle. Sure, he’s engineered a few antics behind the scenes (Rose still can’t fathom what his plan is when it comes to the call center — Donna’s going to be scouring every last phone record, making sure he hasn’t skimmed anything off the top). But the Master hasn’t acted up in front of the cameras, not once.

After Rose’s comment, though, the Master’s stare makes a shiver run from her neck to her toes. She stares right back at him anyway, arching one eyebrow at him, not breaking eye contact.

Before either of them can say anything else, however, a voice comes from behind them — the wings are practically pitch black, it’s a miracle someone hasn’t broken their neck tripping over a sound cable.

“I figured it out!” It’s Martha. She comes closer, materializing from the darkness. She’s got a bottle in one hand, the top unscrewed. “Found this hidden underneath the craft services table.” She lifts the lid, with its dropper full of yellow liquid, to the Doctor’s nose. He takes a sniff and shakes his head. “A few drops of this,” Martha says to Rose, “and anybody’d be sick for hours!”

The Doctor wheels around, but the Master’s already ducked onstage, because the ginger comedienne finished her sketch, and Green Day has already gone through their two-song set. The Master is hamming it up with them as they finish “When It’s Time.”

“Martha, you’re brilliant! Was that the only bottle?” he asks.

“The only one I could find,” she replies.

“Doctor, I’m supposed to be onstage,” Rose says, tugging at his hand. Green Day has wrapped up, and the Master’s talking. It’s hard to make out what he’s saying, though, because the voice in her earpiece is nattering on about their upcoming cues. “And you’re supposed to be in the audience in twenty seconds!”

The next segment involves the Doctor interviewing a six year old whose cancer has just gone into remission. The Doctor squeezes her hand. “Right. Back in a mo.” He turns to Martha. “Scour the catering van, see what else you can find. And tell Donna, too!” Then he’s off like a shot, dashing toward the stairs and his interview.

Rose steps onstage with the Master, and he holds his arm out to her. It reminds her of that dank basement hallway in Kuala Lumpur, of him walking toward her and calling her darling, and her hairs stand on end. She smiles and extends her arm in response, before walking right past him to throw it around Billie Joe Armstrong instead. Rose congratulates him on his performance, and the Master cuts in, reading her lines off the teleprompter, intro-ing the Doctor’s interview just before the cameras cut away.

The Master walks offstage.

Rose watches part of the interview on the huge monitors as Green Day troops off the stage. She has to stick around, to introduce the next act. The interview is something of a disaster, the kid so petrified he can hardly speak. But the Doctor covers brilliantly, manages to pull a few words from him. And when they cut back to Rose, she does the intro for the next act without a problem.

She heads right offstage, into the dark wings, afterward. Her nerves are stretched tight, and all she needs right now is a reassuring squeeze from the Doctor’s hand, maybe a quick kiss, before they figure out how what to do about the Master.

~~~~~

The Doctor is stuck.

Now that the cameras are off of them, the boy he’s just interviewed is going a mile a minute, talking about superheroes and CBeebies and his absolute favorite type of biscuit.

It’s endearing and lovely and the Doctor should really go. He can hear Donna in the background of his in-ear, shrieking about his location and cues, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

“I like jammie dodgers, too,” he tells the boy. “I’ve always thought they look like a little button. Imagine that – turn the telly on and off with your biscuit!”

The boy’s parents are beaming at him and part of him wants to sod it all and set up here for the rest of the night, but he can’t.

He gives it a few more moments, makes a promise to get some biscuits delivered, and then he’s sprinting down the aisle toward backstage, trying to remember what’s supposed to come next.

Donna grabs him by the arm as soon as he’s through the doors, and how did she know he’d go this way and not back through the curtains? Sometimes he’s certain that Donna’s had him chipped, following his movements on a little GPS tracker on her mobile.

“You have to be James Corden,” she tells him, dragging him along the hallways toward the stage.

“Sounds great, I’m not cutting my hair though,” he says. “What if I just part it on the other side? How does he wear it?”

Donna’s jaw clenches, eyes widening at him in a way that indicates now is not the time.

“Okay, all right, I’m going, let’s go,” he says, letting Donna lead him to the wings of stage left.

There’s a band onstage again and he vaguely recalls hearing Rose introduce them as he’d talked with the boy after the interview.

“Did Martha find anything else?” He asks Donna, making sure to keep an ear out for the end of the song and an eye out for Rose, even though it’s incredibly dark. Maybe they should all get little GPS trackers, be like a Marauder’s Map for the band.

“Two more vials in the van and six more people sick,” Donna says. “Including James Corden.”

The Doctor nods, but Donna can’t see it. “Oh, right, of course. How short does that leave us?”

“We’re shifting everything forward,” she says. “Stacking the empty slots at the end. Right now we’ve got 72 minutes of dead air. The network wants to wrap early, air some rebroadcasts. The Master’s offered up the documentary from his last tour.”

The Doctor clenches his hand into a fist, “No, absolutely not,” he says.

“We’re fighting it as best we can,” Donna says. “But if we don’t propose a new schedule soon, it’s happening.”

The band is still playing onstage, some jazzy thing he’ll have to make sure to look up later, but right now he wants to find Rose and sort this out, she’d know what to do.

Where is she?

~~~~~

It’s been more than enough time for the Doctor to get back to the wings, where he should be, and Rose stumbles from the glaring stage-lights into the dark. She’s blind, her eyes trying to adjust as she navigates the cords on the ground by memory, back to where she left the Doctor before he left to conduct the interview. She gropes through the bunched curtains until she finds a hand. Fingers slip through hers, smooth and warm. Tug her closer. She closes her eyes and steps forward willingly, tipping her head up — the Doctor has always been keen on physical reassurance, and she’s never hesitated to give it to him. In fact, she’s in need of it herself, right now.

She’s tired, and ready to collapse into his arms, and everything happens in a flash. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls their joined hands around his back, slips his other arm around her waist and pulls her hips against his own.

It strikes her, his jacket feels different. His fingers feel shorter as they wrap around the back of her hand. He smells wrong, too — not bad, just not like the Doctor. Like licorice and something else she can’t quite identify.

The second his mouth touches hers, she freezes. Goes into a momentary panic, alarms gonging in her head. Smells wrong, tastes wrong, is wrong.

This isn’t the Doctor.

Her eyes snap open, and the Master’s eyes are right there, staring back at her. Darker brown than the Doctor’s, glittering at her like she’s prey. His lips are warm and wet, his tongue slipping through his open mouth to slide along the seam between her closed lips. At the same time, he presses his hips forward, uses the leverage to lean her backward, supporting her with one hand pressed into the small of her back. Her other hand’s still held captive behind his hip.

Everything — from taking his hand to finding herself snogging the Master — happens in a heartbeat, and the panic and shock wear off in the same amount of time. Rose shoves him hard in the chest with her free hand, yanking her head away at the same time, twisting her face to the side. “Get off!”

“I’m trying,” he says, low and filthily seductive in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek, his arm still tight around her waist. “Typical chav. I don’t appreciate being teased.”

“Rose?”

The Doctor’s voice, behind her, is full of shock; it’s clear he’s gotten a good eyeful of Rose in the Master’s arms. And Rose is suddenly so furious, so livid, she dispenses with the shoving and brings her knee up, fast and hard, connects with the Master’s groin.

The Master makes a high-pitched grunting noise and she’s instantly free, his arms dropping down as he folds in half, falls to his knees on the floor. Rose’s instinct is to kick him again while he’s down, get in a few good shots to his ribs before he can retaliate. But the Doctor’s there, pulling her back by the shoulder, turning her around.

“Oh my god,” Rose says, spitting to the side, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Nausea churns in her stomach. The Master makes a whimpering noise, falling onto the ground as he clutches his bruised testicles. “Oh my god, that was disgusting.”

The Doctor searches her face, his brow knit together, his eyes enormous and full of a range of emotions, from fury to worry and everything between. “Did he just force you —”

“I couldn’t see, in the dark,” Rose says, and she reaches her arms around his waist, buries her forehead against his chest, because she can’t bear to look at his face right now. “I thought he was you, he took my hand and I couldn’t see, and …”

The Doctor’s hand slides down her back and he makes a small noise. She stops talking, because her skin is still crawling with the memory of the Master’s tongue against her closed lips, and she’s shaking in the Doctor’s arms — it’s rage and humiliation and embarrassment, and she wants to punch the son of a bitch on the floor. Needs to punch him.

The Doctor lets go, steps away, and her eyes fall closed as her embarrassment flares like fire — he’s seen it, seen Rose in another man’s arms. In the Master’s arms. She can’t turn back time, can’t remove that image from his memory. It will live there forever.

She lifts her head to find the Doctor standing over the Master. The Doctor’s expression is terrifying — Rose has never seen the like. Cold and still, utterly focused, his fists clenched beside his hips. It’s like watching a force of nature wind up, ready to unleash unstoppable havoc. He’s used his trainer to shove the Master’s shoulder, roll him onto his back, still half-curled up in pain. His eyes are wide open, and in spite of everything he manages to grin wickedly up at the Doctor.

“I’ve had better,” the Master says. “But there’s no accounting for taste —”

His words are cut off because the Doctor’s foot moves so fast, it’s a white blur. Lodges against the Master’s throat, pinning him down, restricting his air. He makes a choking noise, his eyes bulging and his hands clapping onto the Doctor’s ankle. The Doctor’s mouth twists into a sneer, muscles standing out along his neck as he leans down harder on the Master’s throat, resisting the Master’s attempts to move his foot.

Part of Rose finds the spectacle gratifying, seeing the Master in more pain, watching him gasp and sputter for air. A bigger part of Rose finds it horrifying, how frightening the Doctor is in this moment, because she’d never have imagined him capable of hurting anyone, in any way.

“If you ever look sideways at Rose again,” the Doctor says, his voice cold and deliberate, “I will use every one of my considerable means to make you the sorriest creature on the face of the Earth.”

Rose steps beside him, grasps his bicep and tugs. Says very quietly, “Doctor.”

He turns toward her, and he isn’t himself for a second — he’s still that cold force of nature, distant and alien and not herDoctor at all. He blinks, shakes his head, and it’s as though he steps through a fog, finds himself again. His foot slides away from the Master’s neck, down his chest.

“You ought to have a word with your bitch,” the Master croaks. “She kissed me.”

“Harry!” Lucy’s voice shatters Rose’s concentration, and she breaks eye contact with the Doctor to turn and face the other woman. Lucy dashes toward them, drops to her knees beside the Master. “Oh darling, what have they done to you?”

“A little assault and battery,” the Master replies, his voice still strained. “Would you mind calling the police? I have an incident to report.”

Lucy glances up at Rose, and her expression isn’t accusatory or angry. Her words are all the correct ones a concerned spouse would say at finding her husband on the ground, throat under another man’s shoe. But Lucy’s eyes, when they meet Rose’s, are full of something entirely unexpected: empathy. Lucy looks down again, helping the Master into a sitting position.

“Darling, here, drink this,” Lucy says, reaching into her handbag for an already-opened bottle of water. And even though it’s dark, from the angle she’s standing at, Rose sees something else: another one of those chemical vials, containing whatever it was the Master used to give food poisoning to the other performers.

“Give me your mobile, you stupid cow,” he spits at her as he lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a long swig.

Keeping her eyes averted, Lucy does as she’s told. He jabs at a few buttons, but the display stays dim. “I must have forgotten to charge it,” she says meekly. “I’m sorry, you know how forgetful I am about these kinds of things.”

The Master takes another swig of the water, and when Lucy tries to help him to his feet, he throws the bottle at her. Water spills everywhere, splattering the floor and Lucy. “You’re fucking useless,” he says, turning on his heel. As he stalks off, he shouts to the stage hands, “Someone give me a phone. NOW!”

Lucy slowly raises her eyes from the water all over the floor and her dress. Her gaze darts to the Doctor only for an instant before it fixes on Rose once more. She draws the vial out of her purse and steps forward, pressing it into Rose’s hands.

“This has got his fingerprints on it,” she says. “And I might’ve accidentally spilled half the contents into that water before I gave it to him. So I wouldn’t count on Harry doing any more hosting or playing any songs tonight, if I were you.”

And with that, Lucy takes a deep breath and steps past Rose, walking straight toward the exit.

Rose turns to the Doctor and there’s a split second where the music onstage ends and the lights come up and she can his face, see the wrung-out look there, see the concern and affection and regret.

But then he nods, eyes apologetic now, and darts out onto the stage.

She can barely hear him as he goes over the lines, it’s all muddled together with the static in her head, the blood pounding in her ears. Then there’s Donna’s hands wrapped around her biceps.

“Rose, Rose!” Donna’s voice is getting louder. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Rose shakes her head, trying to fit everything back into place. Without thinking, she pulls Donna into a hug and Donna returns it.

“Hey, hey, it’s all right.” Donna’s tone is soothing. “Whatever it is, it’s all right.”

She guides Rose out of the wings, back toward the hallway and their dressing room.

There’s a small television with the broadcast mounted in the corner and she watches the Doctor exit the stage as another taped segment takes over the screen.

Donna leads her to the sofa, but Rose doesn’t want to sit. It seems like ages since she was here last, snogging the Doctor and waiting for the show to begin.

Before she can get the words in the right order, figure out what happened and how to process it, it’s all pouring out of her, the Master and the kiss and the Doctor and his anger, the poison, Lucy, all of it.

Donna’s quiet as she speaks, nodding along, and when Rose is through, eyes locked on Donna’s, there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s me,” the Doctor says through the wood.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Rose shakes her head no, even though she does, she might, she doesn’t know what she wants.

“You’ve got eight minutes,” Donna says. “Or the whole night. We can have them put on the news, Fawlty Towers, static, whatever you’d like.”

Rose shakes her head again. “I’ll be out. We’ll be out.”

Donna nods and opens the door, giving the Doctor a long look before letting him pass. She exits the room, closing the door behind her.

“Rose.” The Doctor’s voice is quiet and rough. He moves toward her, but she stiffens and he stops, hands falling at his sides. “I’m sorry,” he says.

She smiles, but it feels wrong, only half of her mouth lifting with the movement.

“Yeah,” she says.

He stares at her, completely still, and he’s waiting on her, she can tell.

She finds her voice again, expelling the words on a breath, “What happened?”

He ducks his head, “Had to be James Corden. You know, I think I’d make a brilliant comedian –”

“Doctor.”

He sighs, “Right, right. I – I don’t know, Rose. Lost control, or I never had it. I just – I saw him with you, and then I found out what happened, and I stopped thinking. Or I was thinking, but I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I’m sorry.”

“You scared me.” The words are small, and she feels the same way. She’s not afraid of ever being on the receiving end of … whatever it is the Doctor just gave to the Master. But watching it happen, watching him turn into a stranger, she’s still got a pit of ice in her stomach.

The Doctor opens his mouth again, and she’s got the sinking feeling he’s going to apologize one more time. She shakes her head, and his jaw works silently, his right hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Scaring you is the last thing I’d ever want to do. You’re my life, Rose,” he says, his brown eyes earnest, his expression a bizarre mix of contrite determination. “That he, of all people, might hurt you — touch you — in a way you don’t want to be touched …” His hands ball into fists and he shoves them into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as his gaze momentarily drops to the floor, before he brings it back to meet hers. “I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again, if it would keep you safe.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, shoulders hunching. She wants something to drink, something to wash the memory of the Master’s mouth away.

She still feels guilt, trickling right below her sternum, making her want to squirm and close her eyes and curl into a ball on the floor. Guilt because, even though it was an accident, she had been the one to reach out for the Master. Because she hadn’t realized sooner who she was touching. Because the Doctor had seen.

Well, that makes both of them then, seeing something they didn’t want to.

And Rose knows how she’d feel, watching someone manipulate the Doctor; watching someone use or hurt him. Thinks about the things she’d do, to keep him from experiencing pain.

She steps forward, arms still wrapped around herself, and he watches her movements like he’s expecting her to break and run at any second. Instead, she leans her head forward onto his chest, resting her cheek against his lapel.

“I love you,” she says. Because that’s what love is — knowing the good, and the bad, and coping with both in equal measure. And the Doctor is her life, too.

He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it up until now. He embraces her, and she closes her eyes, gradually slips her hands around his back. He presses his lips to the top of her head, holds her tighter. And he doesn’t say the words in return, because he’s already said them in a dozen different ways, over the last half hour.

Because she knows.

Of course she knows.

“Never had an ASBO before. Do you think the Master made it to a phone before he needed the loo?” he asks.

Rose grins, and her small laugh sounds like a snort. “I don’t believe you’ve never had an ASBO.”

“Oh, well-l-l-l-ll, it isn’t really fair to count any sort of incident that happens before a bloke turns eighteen.” He pauses. “Or twenty.” Pause. “All right, twenty-five. But I’ve never had an ASBO since I turned twenty-five.”

“It’s only because the Yanks don’t give ASBOs,” Rose retorts. “One particularly memorable day in New York, I personally witnessed incidents of noise pollution, urban exploration, public indecency, and scathing sarcasm that could easily have landed you in front of a magistrate.”

“Really? You thought my sarcasm was scathing?” he asks, perking up even more. “And I remember quite clearly that I wasn’t the only one involved in that public indecency.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Donna’s voice on the other side: “You’re on in sixty seconds!”

The Doctor steps back and extends his hand to her. It’s almost shy, like he’s not sure if she’s going to take it, and she gives him a smile. Because of course she’ll hold his hand, she’ll always hold his hand. No matter where they’ve been and where they’re going, they go together.

Donna knocks on the door again and the Doctor opens it, gesturing with their linked hands for Rose to exit first. Donna catches Rose’s eye as they step into the hall, a questioning look on her face, and Rose nods – they’ll be okay.

“Your instruments are out there,” Donna says. “You have 40 seconds to get to them. And then more than an hour to fill.”

The Doctor glances to Rose, a pleased grin on his face, this is the sort of stuff he lives for, they live for, adrenaline and music and changing the world, in their own small ways.

She returns the grin, caught up for a moment, and Donna’s voice breaks through: “Oi! Thirty seconds!”

Rose’s hand tightens around the Doctor’s and then he’s leaning down, right next to her ear. “Run!”

~~~~~

They stagger onto the stage in a jumble of limbs and the Doctor can barely get his breath, it feels like he’s been chasing it for the last half an hour. But now they’ve got nothing but time, time to perform and relax and for him to remind Rose of who he really is, not who he has the capacity to be.

Jake is looking at them expectantly, bass slung over his shoulders and fingers dancing soundlessly over the strings. He can hear Adam, too, behind the drum set, the faint hiss of a cymbal as he rolls a stick against it.

The Doctor steps up to a mic, hesitating only for a second, because this is definitely not what the crowd is expecting, and if they can’t get the buy-in from the live audience, it’s certainly not going to play on the broadcast.

“Good evening, Manchester! We thought we’d put on a little rock show! What do you think?”

The noise is deafening, cheering and clapping and, oh, they’re going to be just fine.

“What shall we play, Rose?” He says it into the mic, but he’s looking right at her.

Rose’s eyes light up, like she’s just thought of something, and, god, he loves that look on her.

“Let’s take some requests! First person with a hundred quid for the cause can pick our opening number!” Rose’s voice echoes out through the speakers, brilliant and perfect.

He can hear a rush of sound in his monitor and from the crowd and it’s only a moment before a donation is in.

They play that way the whole night, requests for donations, huge ones, little ones, extremely suspect ones.

There’s two quid and a promise of next week’s allowance from a tiny girl in the front row for the Teletubbies theme tune.

There’s 500 pounds from Jack for Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” with a matching donation from Rose and the band if he does a little dance.

Jackie Tyler calls in and promises a blank check for a Cliff Richard song, and Donna doubles the bid of an audience member looking for some Spice Girls.

There are donations from all over the world and before long they’re pooling the duplicates. They match up twin callers from California and Delaware for “Drops of Jupiter,” and a group out of Scotland raises an obscene amount of money for “Werewolves of London.”

He buys out the last block himself and leaves the choice to Rose, unable to keep from snogging her right there on stage when she picks the first song they’d ever written together.

The night is a staggering success, the total a full third more than anything the special has brought in before.

There are legal issues to deal with, the Master, their feelings, all of it, but it’ll all be there in the morning.

In the limo on the way home, Rose finds out exactly how tight his trousers are and he finds out just what type of bra one wears under a Union Jack vest.

It only takes a week to start planning for next year.


	2. Chapter 2

 

If the Master had been conscious, he never would’ve ended up here. But after a while, the dehydration got to him, and he apparently laid down on the floor of his ensuite and didn’t get up again. At least, that’s what his personal assistant told him, when he woke up in the hospital. The same personal assistant he’d fired, because she’d called an ambulance and had him taken in, instead of bringing the doctors and nurses and IVs to him.

He’s in a private room, at least. She exhibited that small bit of competence, before he shouted so loud he woke half the patients in the ward, telling her to sod off and she wouldn’t be getting pay for the last twenty-four hours, either. (It occurs to him, in the back of his mind, what a terrible twenty-four hours it must have been for her – caring for him as everything he’d ever eaten came out from both ends, he’s never in his life felt worse.)

Of course, with his personal assistant gone, he doesn’t have anyone to begin the process of tracking down dear Lucy, so he can bring her to heel for what she’s done. Just as soon as they let him have a phone, he’s going to ring up a certain private investigator – the one who employs two big burly blokes, the one who takes care of the business the Master needs handled quietly.

Sleeping in the hospital is practically impossible. There are machines beeping, the IV sticking into his arm, little gadgets attached to his fingertips and toes. And every time he rips them out, the nurses come swarming right in, stick them back on.

The Master opens his eyes from another uneasy nap, bleary and still exhausted. The ward is dark, only half the lights on in the hallway. He turns his head and sees by the clock it’s nearly three in the morning.

When he turns back, he catches sight of someone out of the corner of his eye. In a chair on the far side of the room, watching. The Master sits up, turns his full attention that direction.

“Did you tell them you were family? Is that how you wormed your way in here?” the Master croaks at him.

The Doctor’s mouth flattens, something between a smirk and a smile. “I told them you’re my niece.”

“You used your connections with that nurse you diddle around with. Molly?Marta? Something starting with an 'm' -- delicious little thing. Mmm. So you've come to put something in my drip?” he asks, waving at the IV stand beside the bed.

“Not my style,” the Doctor replies, the muscles along his jaw tightening. He always gets defensive when the Master pokes at his little harem of companions, and the Master never gets tired of watching his spectrum of reactions.

“Come to stick your foot in my throat again?”

The smirk on the Doctor’s face becomes strained, shifts into something close to unhappiness. He rubs his cheek, covered with a few days' worth of stubble. “That wasn’t – I didn’t – no. No, that isn’t happening again.”

“Does your precious little Rose know you’re here?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Mmm. She  _doesn’t_.” The Doctor glances away and the Master grins, because he’s right. “So what’s this all about then, Doctor? What’s made you slip out of her arms in the middle of the night, come behind her back to visit an old friend? Worried for my welfare?”

“I’ve come to make you an offer.”

Leaning forward a bit more, dragging the IV cord with him, the Master grins. His dry lips, cracked and painful, stretch across his teeth.  “This ought to be entertaining.”

“We found the donation money you were skimming through your call center, from the broadcast. All five million pounds.” The Doctor rises to his feet – he never could sit still for long, he was always a long, lean burst of energy – and he strolls to the window. Stares out at the streetlights before turning around, and coming to stand at the foot of the Master’s bed. It’s disconcerting, to be sitting on his ass, weak from dehydration and vulnerable, while the Doctor struts around.

The Doctor’s gaze fixes on him; the Master stares back without blinking, lifts his eyebrows. “Obviously some sort of mathematical error – that call center has been plagued with incompetence since day one –”

The Doctor’s stare doesn’t waver, and the Master doesn’t bother to finish lying. He didn’t think the Doctor would believe him, anyway; it was simply a matter of habit. 

He rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Fine, I’ll return the money.”

“We have the chemical vial you used to poison the catering food, and it’s got your fingerprints on it. Fairly damning, as far as evidence goes.” The Doctor pauses. “Lady Gaga vomited in your drum kit.”

The Master has balled up the cotton hospital blanket into his fists. He grimaces. “Y’know, the one time I invited her to my place for a party, she vomited in my Prada boots. Apparently this is a hobby of hers.” He leans his head to the side, until his neck cracks. “Right. So … you’re here to tell me you’ve got me over a barrel? Gloating?”

The Doctor’s fingers tap at the plastic footboard of the bed, drumming out a four-beat rhythm the Master knows too well. “You’re cleverer than that, even in  _this_ shape.”

“You want me not to press charges, for smashing my windpipe when I was already incapacitated on the floor,” the Master says, licking his cracked lips again and swallowing. It hurts, when he does – the muscles in his throat are nicely bruised. He thinks about shouting for his assistant, demanding she fetch him some chap-stick, but then he remembers that he fired her six hours ago.

“It would be better all around, wouldn’t it? Keeping all of this out of the legal system, away from the press. You return the money to the charity – plus an additional two million pounds, because you’re a stand-up bloke. I’ll drop that little chemical vial into the nearest dumpster, instead of taking it to the police. Nobody presses any charges, and we all walk away having learned something.”

Rolling his eyes, the Master leans back on his pillow, tucks one hand behind his head. “You’ve worked it all out, neat and tidy.”

“I like to think it’s a talent of mine,” the Doctor replies, dragging his chair closer to the bed, sitting down. He sticks his trainer-clad feet up on the side of the mattress. “Cleaning up your messes. I've had so much practice, over the years.”

“Lucy’s scarpered off,” the Master croaks. Without getting out of his chair, the Doctor grabs a glass of water from a nearby table and leans forward, offering it to him. The Master takes it with a frown, swallows a sip. It aches, going down. “She cleaned out the one bank account she had access to, the night of the broadcast. She took all the jewelry I bought for her. She even took our dog.”

“Can you blame her?” the Doctor replies, tugging at his lopsided ear and jiggling his foot. The bed shakes. "Won't take you long to find a new pet, anyway. Never does."

The Doctor isn't talking about the dog.

“I’m going to ruin her,” the Master says.

“She’ll make out okay,” the Doctor replies. Because he’s probably already helping Lucy – he’s probably already referred her to his lawyer, or a women’s shelter, or something else. Bleeding heart that he is.

In the back of his head, the Master’s already running down half a dozen ways to make Lucy’s life miserable. Because she deserves it, for doing this to him. Because it will make the Doctor unhappy.

“Fine,” the Master says, licking his dry lips again. He tastes a little bit of blood; they’re properly cracked, now. “I’ll donate an extra  _one_ million on top of the five I’m returning to the charity. And I won’t press charges. And since your little stunt ruined my throat, and I won’t be singing for a while,  _you’re_  going to buy me a new drum kit.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes and tips the chair up onto two back legs. “A nice one, I suppose?”

“I have it on good authority that Charlie Watts is selling his original set. I think that one would do quite nicely.” It will be ridiculously expensive, hundreds of thousands of pounds.

“Fine, I’ll give Charlie a call. Haven’t talked to him in ages, anyway. It’s about time I say hello.”

Setting the water down, the Master sticks out his hand. “Shall we shake on it, then?”

The Doctor’s chair thumps back down onto all four legs and he leans forward, hand coming out to meet the Master’s. His grip is firm and his palms a little sweaty – not nearly as collected as he looks, then. The Master grins and squeezes his hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says.

The Doctor lets go, fingers slipping out of the Master’s grasp. He stands up, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a tube of chap-stick, tossing it onto the bed beside the Master’s leg.

“It doesn’t always have to be this way,” the Doctor says.

Without looking at the chap-stick, much less touching it, the Master stares up at him and crosses his arms. The muscles in his jaw tighten; his throat aches. “Yes, it does.”

The breath the Doctor takes is deep, a sigh of resignation. “I’m sorry you think so.”

“You’re always sorry,” the Master replies, and he doesn’t necessarily want to be saying these words – but they’re second nature now, as much a part of him as breathing, as the incessant rhythm he feels in the back of his skull that comes out in his need to pound a drumbeat on every available surface. He sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re so,  _so_ sorry. It must be tiresome, living in a constant state of contrition.”

“It isn’t contrition,” the Doctor replies, picking his brown overcoat up from the back of the chair, dusting it off. “Just knowing that things can be better –  _should_  be better. And knowing there are some things I can’t fix, no matter how much I might try.”

The Doctor is talking about  _him,_ the Master realizes. Fixing  _him_.

“Not all of us live in the past, Doctor. You want someone to fix, you ought to go home to your chav. You’ve always liked playing with younger girls. They’re so malleable, aren’t they, especially in the Doctor's impressive hands? Although it doesn’t always turn out exactly as you’d hoped. Oh, what  _was_  that American girl's name – Peri? Remember how long you tried to help her, what a mess you made of her life? Wouldn't want history to repeat itself with your precious Rose.”

Acting as though he hadn’t spoken, the Doctor replies, “I’ll expect to hear from your people, about the six million. And I’ll call Charlie about that drum set, have it delivered by the end of the week.” Without looking at the Master again, he puts on his overcoat.

He pauses at the door, his long fingers wrapped around the doorframe, turning so the Master can see his profile in the light from the hall. “Your hospital bill’s already been settled. Get all the treatment you need.”

The Master opens his mouth to say something, but the Doctor’s already gone. Instead, the Master picks up the tube of chap-stick – still warm from being in the Doctor’s pocket – and flings it across the room. It clatters against the wall and hits the floor, rolling to a stop. Licking his parched lips again, tasting blood, the Master reaches over and rips out the IV needle, yanks off the heartrate monitor. Alarms start wailing down the hall, at the nurse’s station. 


End file.
